Hickory Jack (Ben Blue Book 1)

by Lou Bradshaw

  My plan had been to spend the following day working on my fence at the gap, but while I was saddling up the little sorrel Pablo and four other vaqueros came rolling in with a couple of wagons and wearing gloom all over their faces. No horseman wants to do anything that requires working on the ground. They figure, if it can’t be done from the saddle then it ain’t worth doing. And these boys were ready to go do one of their most hateful chores which is cut hay.

  I told them to come on to the house and we’d finish off that pot of coffee before we got started. They did, and it helped their dispositions a little. I threw my scythe into the wagon and me and that sorrel went tagging along behind the others.

  We spent the next four days cutting and loading hay. My barn was full and there was a wagon constantly on the move hauling hay to the Domingo rancho. Those boys sure moaned and groaned, but they did a sight of work with those scythes and hayforks. Every time I had a fork in my hand I thought about that fella running into mine. I guess a memory like that doesn’t leave a person easily.

  I had planned to ride over and have a talk with Sam after I got my fence all done, but that got side tracked by the hayin duties. The very next morning after we finished cutting hay, I was back at work on the fence. My intent was to leave a gate way of about thirty or forty yards in the middle. It would mean that a large herd would have to be passed through slowly, but there was no help for it. The following day, I was just finishing up and nailing a sign, which had “MB Range” burned into a piece of barn wood to an end post, when I saw a pair of riders coming up the slope. I checked to make sure my rifle was close at hand and slipped the thong off the hammer of my belt gun.

  As they got within facial recognition distance, I decided that I didn’t know or like the looks of either one. When they pulled up at the opening I said, “Howdy, something I can do for you gents?” One was sort of small and fleshy, while the other was medium height and build, but he had a dark and disturbing look about him.

  The chubby fella said, “Are you Blue?” I admitted that I was Ben Blue, and asked who might he be. He said his name was Abe Pickering, and the other gent was his foreman, Ralph Bristol. I told them that I was pleased and to get down and sit if they could find a place to sit.

  I was standing on the valley side of the fence with my hands on the top of it. They came up from the slope side and stood about four or five feet away. “What is it I can do for you, Mr. Pickering?” I asked.

  “Well,” he said, “I thought we might talk a little business. It seems that you’ve got more range here than you can use, and I can use more than I have.”

  “For right now, I’ve got a little more than I need. I’m rentin’ some of it out to Juan Domingo. He had a grass fire which put a bit of a squeeze on him. We worked out an agreement, and it seems to be good for both of us.”

  “What would it take for me to put about thirty five hundred head up here?” He asked.

  I scratched my jaw for a few seconds and said, “I’d winter your cows up here for three hundred and fifty head of young stuff… nothing over two years old. And you put them here at your own risk. I won’t be nurse maidin your cows. And they need to be gone by the first of April.”

  Bristol must have not liked the idea because he started to say something, but Pickering stopped him short and said, “Now, that won’t work at all. I’d be giving you one beef for every ten I bring in. Why, that’s eight or nine percent.”

  “Actually, it’s ten percent Mr. Pickering.”

  “Right.. er.. that’s what I thought, anyway it’s too much. I was thinking more like three hundred and fifty dollars.” He said.

  “Ten cents a head?” I asked. That’s hardly worth me having to look at ‘em all winter. I’m not in need of cash right now, but I do need stock, and if I can save my cash and dicker for ‘em then so much the better.”

  “Well, Mr. Blue, it doesn’t look like we can do any business here today, but if you change your mind let me know.”

  “Mr. Pickering, I don’t know who gave the orders to send those cattle up here a couple of weeks ago. But whether it was you or Bristol here doesn’t matter. Someone just assumed they could push their way in here and do what they wanted. If that someone had come to me and asked nice, my price wouldn’t have been near so high. As it was, men were almost killed because someone felt like pushin’.”

  Bristol glared at me, and Pickering glared at Bristol.

  I decided I didn’t care much for Pickering and I especially didn’t like good old Ralph.

  As they started down the slope, they fell into a heated argument. It wasn’t the kind of fussing that a hired man would have with his boss. Pickering was finger pointing, and Bristol was making all kinds of gesticulations. Once, he pointed back at me then turned around and glared. Nope, I didn’t like them at all.

  I had told the vaqueros about the herd that had been driven up by Baker and company, and that the fence didn’t pertain to them or any of the Domingo riders. And that they had free access to come and go as they pleased or needed to.

  I loaded up my gear, tied it behind my saddle, and headed back to the house. I was going to get over to the Esses and have a talk with Sam.

  After washing up and changing my shirt, I had a quick meal of some leftover roasted jack rabbit, a big chunk of cheese and a hard biscuit, which I washed down with what was left of this morning’s coffee. After saddling Bob, I rode out of the gap, on my way to see Sam… or anyone else who might be there.

  I found Sam sitting on the front porch swing smoking his pipe and scratching on a tablet with a pencil. I think he was happy to see anyone who could take him away from his writing and figuring. Few ranchers are good businessmen, or so I’m told. They have spent most of their lives with men, horses, and cattle out in the open and under the sun. Many of them don’t know about credits and balance sheets or market futures. They know cattle, and the change from saddle to chair had been so gradual that they were suddenly trapped outside their element, and hopelessly uncomfortable.

  I told him that I could buy some more cattle and wanted to know if anyone was selling at a good price. That led us to talk about this or that ranch or rancher and what kind of spread they had. Sam wasn’t one to carry tales or spread rumors if he wasn’t pretty sure of his facts.

  There were a few rawhide outfits over to the west who might be selling; for the most part range conditions were good and there was no need to sell off. But a couple of those fellas had let it get overgrazed, and they might be selling. I told him that I’d heard that Barkley had a large herd and, may be willing to sell some. “How is he to do business with?” I asked.

  “Ben, I wouldn’t say this to too many, but I know you and like you, and I don’t want to see you gittin hurt.

  “I like old Barkley. Like him a lot. Like to sit and shoot the bull with him. He’s real good company, and he’s funny too. But I won’t do business with him. I just don’t trust him when it comes to money or business.”

  “Now, if you ever repeat this, I’ll call you a liar and you’ll have shoot me, but his herd keeps growing at outlandish proportions. There’s many a rancher who got a start by slappin a brand on a maverick now and then. But not many do that much anymore ‘cause there’s usually a mama cow bawlin close by wearing somebody’s brand. So common sense would tell a fella that the calf belongs to that cow. There ain’t too many yearlings out there on the range without a brand on ‘em. I don’t think there’s any out and out rustlin going on or brand alterin, but there seems to be some loosy goosy calf brandin goin on.”

  “If Matt Barkley’s connected to that, I’ll be heart sick, but I’ll help throw the rope over the limb. This is a wide open country, and you’d think that with all those miles and miles out there that a fella could pull off almost anything and no body’d know about it. Tain’t so.”

  “Now,” he said, “I don’t reckon I’m the only one here you came to visit. So you go on in there and start yellin and she’ll come out.”

  “There’s no
need to yell, Grampa, I’m right here.” Patty said as she came through the door looking as pretty as a picture.

  I said, “Well here comes the best cook in Taos County… and one of the prettiest too.”

  “And, just how many pretty cooks do you know in Taos County?” She asked with a smirk.

  “Let me see… There’s you and Linda and Maggie…and Rosa… and there’s that cute little package that Andy was eating with.”

  “Well, Maggie doesn’t count yet, and Rosa’s undoubtedly a good cook, but she’s a professional, so she don’t count either. Belle, the girl that Andy was with is pretty enough, but she’s got an empty head and can’t cook for sour apples. Is that all you got mister.?”

  “How about Maria Domingo?” I asked. She makes right nice little cakes.”

  “Oh,” she said with a sudden wide eyed expression, “Maria’s not just pretty… she’s beautiful. How do you know her?”

  “She served Juan and me coffee and cakes at his ranch a few weeks back. Did you know she’s getting married to some fella in Santa Fe soon?” She said she hadn’t heard, but she seemed pleased at the news.

  She determined that I didn’t know enough pretty cooks to be making such a bold statement, but I stood by my comment. She seemed pleased about that too. I told her that my main reason for coming over was to return her gravy jar, and I retrieved it from my saddle bag.

  She thanked me, and we went into the house. In the kitchen, she poured three cups of coffee, put two on the table and took one out to her grandpa. When she came back in she sat across from me and said, “Ben, you don’t have to have a reason to come visit. You’re welcome at anytime, for no other reason than a cup of coffee and a little conversation.”

  I told her that I appreciated that, and I’d try not to become a pest. I also told her that I had a lot to do to get ready for winter. Then I told her about seeing that pig and my plans for a smokehouse. I said, “I don’t want to raise hogs, and I don’t want wild ones on the range, but if there’s enough of them up in that timber I might make a little money selling hams and bacon.” She thought that was a great idea.

  I told her that I was just finding my way as a rancher, if I was ever going to amount to anything; I had to put in a lot of work and use my head and be creative.

  Early the next morning, I rode down to the south cabin to look at that smokehouse. It wasn’t much of a building. It was about ten by fifteen feet and sure enough it had been used as a smokehouse, but by the looks of it, there wasn’t going to be any moving of it. It was a log structure and much too heavy for my horses to drag up to the house. I took a good look at how it was put together and determined that I could throw one up using light weight lodgepole timbers and have it ready before snow fall.

  Going back to the house, I harnessed up the sorrel and Brownie for some more draft horse work and led them back to the stand of lodge pole pines. By nightfall I had all I’d need to get a good start on that smokehouse. Tomorrow I’d go shopping.

  The next morning, found me with that dun under me, the sorrel on a lead rope wearing a pack saddle, and I was headed for Taos. I needed tools and some other odds and ends, but mostly I needed a wagon of some sort. I got me a one man cross cut saw, some assorted nails, a box of 44 cartridges, a bag of flour, and some other foodstuff. I loaded everything on the pack saddle, and went on down to the livery stable in search of a wagon.

  At the livery stable, the man there told me that he didn’t have any wagons for sale, but he’d rent me one or even a buggy if I had a gal to take for a ride. I told him that I needed a wagon to keep. He suggested I go to the smithy. He usually had one or two around the shop.

  When I got to the shop, the smith was working at the anvil and the sparks were fairly flying. I watched him until he put the piece he was working on in water, and turned to me. He howdied me and said, “Say, ain’t you that fella from the box social? The one who paid seven dollars for a box supper?

  I smiled and told him that I was the guilty party, and that I’d heard that that little gal was some kind of good cook. He gave me a wry grin and said, “Uh hu!”

  I said, “Well… she’s something of a special friend. But that knuckle head kept raisin’ the anti on me, so I had to stay with him.” He just chuckled.

  I told him who I was and where my ranch was and that I was in need of a serviceable wagon. He looked at me funny and said, “I knew some Blues back in Tennessee, came over on the boat with them from Ireland. Who might your ma and pa be, Ben Blue?”

  I told him their names. And he perked right up. “I knew it… it had to be. You’ve got the size and breadth of Danny Blue, but you look like sweet little Kathleen. You certainly got her hair.”

  “You wait right there while I go get the misses.” With that he shot across the yard and into the backdoor of the nearest house.

  Within a matter of seconds a full bodied middle aged woman came busting from the same door and running straight at me. She wrapped both arms about me and near squeezed the life out of me. Then she pushed me back and looked hard at my face. “Lord in heaven, son, you have the look of your mother for sure… the same carrot red hair and the same green eyes. You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Kitty, Kitty Callahan.”

  “No ma’am.” I told her. “And I’m sorry that I don’t because no man should ever forget such a dear lady as yourself… and such a good hugger at that.”

  “Padrik,” she said to her husband, “would you listen to him. It’s like I’m hearing his own father talk.” Then she hugged me again… harder. She grabbed my arm and dragged me to the house. I looked to her husband and he motioned me to go ahead.

  Over coffee and some sweet buns, she plied me with questions about everyone. I told her about the fever taking my whole family, and how the Moore’s, whom she also knew, took me in and raised me until they were murdered. She broke down a few times but kept asking questions. I told her how Andy and I had stayed on the place under the watchful eye of Elizabeth Thompson and her father. She was pleased to hear that they were doing well. I said that we left there about 6 years ago and had been in New Mexico over four years. I told her about my ranch and that Andy had just started his new job as deputy sheriff.

  She asked me if I was courting that pretty little Patty Stellars, or did I just feel like spending that much money for a meal. Of course I blushed, and told her that if I were a little farther along with the ranching business, I might try a hand at the courtin’ business. She didn’t know Andy, but she knew him by sight and reputation. So she told me to, “Tell that good lookin wild young cowboy, Andy Moore, to get himself over here because I’ve got a hug for him too.” Then she gave me another squeeze and sent me back to Padrik.

  Chapter 34

  Padrik Callahan and I dickered over two wagons, one was a buckboard and the other was a heavy duty stake wagon for hauling rocks or logs. I didn’t have the horseflesh to handle the bigger one, so I settled on the buckboard and got a good price. We rigged some leather and rope for the sorrel and the dun, threw the pack and riding saddle, in the bed, and I headed home. It wasn’t a new buckboard by a long shot, but it would do for what I needed. I’d talked to Callahan about putting in my own forge and being able to do some of my own smith work. When he found out that I had done some rough smithing while in Texas, he offered me job. I thanked him and said I had more jobs than I could handle at the present time.

  I decided to make the sorrel and Brownie my regular team. Brownie was a good horse if you could stay in his rhythm, but his gait would cripple you if you got out of sync with him. And the sorrel was plenty strong and not overly fast. They looked funny together with Brownie being a good hand taller, but they worked well together.

  The following three days I spent cutting and notching logs. The smokehouse at the other cabin gave me a pretty good guide to go by, and the notching and fitting of logs was something that every country boy just knew about. It was just plain logic. I laid out the foundation for my new smoke house, and started putting it togethe
r. It was like a large puzzle. Everything fit together and in no time I was ready to lay the roof in place. It didn’t need much of a slope, just enough to shed water. The roof consisted mostly split rails and clay chinking. I used pole rafters to hang meat from, and on the sixth day, I was ready to go pig hunting.

  The dun, which I had dubbed as Dusty, and I were out looking for hogs the next morning. He was quick and smart. I didn’t know how he would react to having a rifle shot from his back, but I was going to find out pronto. We went up to where I had seen the half grown hog and rode up into the timber. I didn’t know exactly how to hunt hogs, or if it could be done from horseback.

  Fortunately, the undergrowth wasn’t too thick and the timber wasn’t like aspen, which grows so close together, you can barely get a horse through it. I sat, rifle in hand, waiting on a small ridge above a spot where large old trees had fallen years ago and was pretty well rotted out. It looked like a likely place for hogs to be rooting around. We didn’t have to wait long, until I heard grunts and snuffling noises near the root ball of that tree. I had seen my horses ears prick minutes earlier.

  I gave Dusty a slight squeeze with my knees to let him know that something was up. He responded with a bunching of his shoulder muscles. Then a pair of hogs came around the backside of that root ball. I took my aim held my breath and then let it out with the squeeze of the trigger. The first hog dropped and I took a shot at the second, but wasn’t quick enough. It took off around the back of that tree and through the trees, with Dusty and me right behind. That pig disappeared into some brush and up the slope. I could hear it above us, but I didn’t want to go crashing through the brush on a mad pig chase. I had one down and that was a good start.

  The hog I’d shot was stone cold dead. I cut his throat and hung him from a tree limb by his hind feet to let him bleed out. Then I gutted him and cut off his head. The folks back in the hills would use every ounce of that hog, but I only wanted what I wanted. Basically, I treated it like I would have treated a deer or antelope. I remembered butcherings back on the farm, but I was pretty young and it was mostly done by the adults. Andy and I had given it a couple of tries while we were alone on the farm, but that was for our own use. I’d have to talk to Sam or Rubio about the art of butchering.